


A Thousand Years

by DevineMandate



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Inspired by Music, Music, Post-Lethal White
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-21
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:54:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26030746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevineMandate/pseuds/DevineMandate
Summary: Robin's pining, Strike's pining--it's like a lot full of Christmas trees, it's so piney.  But will it end that way?Taking a stab at a song fic, title shared with the Christina Perri song.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 33
Kudos: 56





	1. Dying Every Day

Robin had been seething all day.

Strike had not been on a date with a woman (as far as Robin could tell) since he and Lorelei had split up about six months ago, about the same time Robin's marriage had finally collapsed, but the appearance of a familiar garment bag in his office this morning had set Robin’s teeth on edge.

It had been extremely difficult to keep her head in the game at work today. During a midday stakeout, she’d had a flashback to sitting in the Land Rover during the Barrow trip, waiting for Strike to emerge from his interview with a female masseuse. She remembered the undercurrent of jealousy (that she had not yet dared to identify as jealousy at the time) as she waited, how her thoughts had lingered on Elin and the prospect of Strike having sex with the masseuse while she waited for him in the car, drumming her fingers.

But she knew what she felt now, and it was no undercurrent; it was a raging river of envy, filled with whirlpools of anger and despondency that threatened to pull her down and drown her.

Back in the office that afternoon, her attitude had curdled even further as she watched Strike go about his work with a specific type of effervescence that was definitely associated with sex. It was the kind of effervescence he hadn’t been able to smother completely the morning after his tryst with Ciara Porter, that had been so evident in the early days of his relationships with Elin and Lorelei.

With the day winding down, Strike was dressed for the evening, making final inspections, examining the seams on his jacket before he put it on.

In the end, Robin was unable to help herself. "Who are you going out with tonight?"

Strike did not look her in the eye as he shrugged on his suit jacket. “Woman I met at a party during the counterfeit art case we closed on last week, Jackson Bollock and all that. Name’s Genevieve.”

 _Genevieve_. How perfect. How utterly and completely that name fit with the others in his collection of bright-feathered songbirds. Ciara. Elin. Lorelei. _Genevieve_. So that was the name she’d spend the next year learning to hate.

“Let me guess: she’s a welder by day, and a dancer by night.”

“She’s an artist, actually. Checked the internet--seems some fairly famous fuckers have bought her paintings the last couple years. Runs her own gallery too.”

_Turns out I don’t need a year to hate that name._

Deep bitterness made her not care what she was saying or how he would respond, and her tone was sardonic: “Do you think she has long term potential as a relationship?”

Strike blinked and tilted his head briefly but sharply, taken aback. He tried to maintain a light tone. “No idea. Y’never know, could be she’s the woman of my dreams, I suppose.”

Robin’s nostrils flared. “Woman of your dreams, is it? I bet Elin and Lorelei would have some thoughts on that. Anyway, I thought you dumped the woman of your dreams right before we met.”

Now Strike turned his head sharply again and reared onto his heels, eyes wide with shock, recoiling like she had bludgeoned him in the face. She had never weaponised Charlotte like that, never.

“Robin, are you angry with me? Did I do something wrong?”

Robin turned a sour look on him as she met his eyes, but when she saw how truly hurt he felt, how pointlessly contrite the look in his eyes was, she couldn’t muster anything but affection and guilt and her expression grew less tense and more tired.

“I’m sorry, Cormoran, it’s been a rough week...well, six months, really. Matthew’s being a petty little shit about the divorce, I’m feeling very isolated, hours have been long at work even though that’s all to the good for the agency, I still have some work to do before I leave tonight. I...I went off on you on a topic I shouldn’t have, it wasn’t right, I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right,” said Strike, and though he smiled, he still did not look entirely unguarded, like he was waiting for her to rear up and unleash another ghost from his past. His leg or his mother, perhaps. “About being isolated, though, that’s terrible. Will you come with me to Nick and Ilsa’s this weekend? They love you, and I know you’d be happy to see them.”

This was kind, but also somehow felt like a reinforcement of her position as Strike’s platonic friend. It both affirmed how he valued her and her feelings, and cemented her bitterness: she wanted more out of their relationship than she would ever get.

Her tone and expression were now pleasant and friendly with no hint of acrimony; she was very practised at hiding her feelings from Strike by now: “No, thank you, not this weekend, but do tell me the next time if you really think I won’t be inviting myself impolitely.”

“Never,” said Strike solemnly, and again Robin felt how keenly he cared about her and her feelings, her heart throbbing painfully. 

"Thanks, Cormoran. Go on now, don't let me keep you. I hope you and Genevieve have a great evening, and I’m sorry again for what I said.”

Strike did not look entirely mollified, but took her up on it. “All right, hope you feel better. Let me know if I can do anything for you. You know I will.”

“I do know you will,” said Robin, and now her warmth was genuine. “I know you care about me; it means a lot.”

Now Strike seemed more reassured, and his eyes softened, and he said, “And I know the feeling’s mutual. Good night, Robin. I’ll see you on Monday.”

“Night!” She sounded overzealous to herself, like she was trying to sell her enthusiasm too much, but Strike walked out and she heard the door downstairs shut behind him.

********

An hour later, with headphones on and a playlist on random, Robin was keeping herself busy, bustling between the paper files and the one on her computer. She was having some success at managing to not think about Cormoran and _Genevieve_. She was almost done with work now, and she was even optimistic she could keep up her spirits through the evening if she just pushed on.

And then... 

The opening piano of “A Thousand Years” by Christina Perri tinkled plaintively in Robin’s ears. Oh, she loved this song. It was perhaps a bit overly sentimental, approaching pap, but she had yet to find another song that captured her feelings about Cormoran so well. Given her solitude and the song that was playing, she suddenly had the urge to let out her overwhelming emotions vocally.

Robin went through the office doorway and took a peek down the stairs to be certain Strike had not inopportunely returned. Then she recklessly turned up the volume, nearly to the maximum, and went back into the office. Within a couple of seconds, she began singing heartily:

_“Heart beats fast  
Colours and promises  
How to be brave  
How can I love when I’m afraid to fall  
But watching you stand alone  
All of my doubt suddenly goes away somehow  
One step closer”_

Ah, the ache here in the chorus, and imagining the release that would never come with Cormoran...it made her heart soar and break together, and she kept singing:

_“I have died every day, waiting for you_  
_Darling, don’t be afraid, I have loved you for a thousand years  
_ _I’ll love you for a thousand more"_

And between the events of the evening and the damned song, Robin was suddenly sobbing, the strings still pounding her ears before the second verse, and she shouted, “Oh, Cormoran!” and sat down and wept into her sleeves for the duration of the song.

Then she got the office in a fit state for Monday, made sure there was no evidence of her tearful outburst, went downstairs, and locked up, imagining Cormoran using his key on this same door in a few hours…to go up to his flat with _Genevieve_.

Robin trudged toward the Tube stop, her mind filled with storm clouds. Unrequited love (which Robin had never experienced before) truly did feel like dying. Every single day. How many more days and deaths could she endure?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to be upfront, I did not really care for Twilight, but I do think this song is very good. It's definitely THE Robin/Strike song in my mind.


	2. Waiting for You

Strike made his way back to the office and his flat. His date had been an utter disaster. Beautiful Genevieve was, with a body that made his blood rush, but first she had been rude to the restaurant’s staff, and she had followed that, a bit after they sat down, by stating her opinions about “those Jews that run everything”. This had been interrupted by the waiter inquiring about their order, which Strike and Genevieve put in. Strike had then said that he thought her views were distasteful, saying that it was similar to blanket statements that foreigners and particularly brown people were prone to crime and ruining the UK.

She had said: “Well, that’s also true.”

Strike had looked at her and thought how incredible it was that a person’s beautiful exterior could be rendered instantly meaningless and even downright unattractive in the face of their ugly interiors.

_Ought to have figured that out by now, haven’t you? Charlotte, for instance. And it’s a good thing beauty isn’t the only thing that matters or not a single fucking woman would sleep with you. This one’s not getting the privilege of sharing a bed with you, though, that’s for sure._

Strike had stood up, and dropped a couple of notes on the table that would cover the cost of both their dinners, and ambled outside without looking behind him, glad that the restaurant was not terribly far from the office. He might be able to catch Robin before she finished up for the night.

What had Robin been on about tonight anyway? She had been almost...surly. It wasn’t like her to express disdain or skepticism about his sex life. If he didn’t know better, he’d have thought she was…

_Sod all that, Strike. She’s never seen you that way and she won’t. Better she doesn't anyway. Maybe she was angry about having to spend time working while you went out._

But that didn’t really tally either. Work usually invigorated Robin, it didn’t tend to enervate her, though she _had_ been working some very long hours recently.

Strike had watched the ongoing saga of Robin’s divorce with an odd combination of emotions: ninety percent pity and earnest sympathy, ten percent cold, joyless satisfaction at seeing Matthew proven a git again and again and again. Matt manouevred through their legal separation with an accountant’s wranglings, and false accusations, and outrageous demands.

_Shouldn’t have married the tosser, should you?_

He attempted to quash this feeling once more. It was wrong of him to feel this way; Robin was suffering, and her traumatic past had plenty to do with her union with Matthew, and she was too kind a soul to finish it with the tit until the final straw with that Shadlock woman (he shuddered remembering her unwanted touch on his bicep). He was being unjust in his own mind, cruel and vicious when only the kindest emotions were due Robin.

Quash the feeling temporarily he might, but still it ran underneath.

The last six months had done nothing to improve his (and he literally rolled his eyes at the word) angst where Robin was concerned. A couple of months after his split with Lorelei, Charlotte had made an ill-advised attempt to rekindle their bygone flame, after her tabloid-splattering divorce proceedings with Jago Ross had begun. This had generated only disgust from him, and he felt glad she’d done it, as it had brought a finality to their relationship in his mind that he had not felt before. He knew now that if he saw her in the street, he’d only hope she didn’t see him. He was also incredibly grateful Robin knew nothing of Charlotte's ridiculous gambit. 

However, this left him a little more emotionally available, one might say, and with his attachment to Charlotte fully dissolved and Robin finally tossing the wanker aside, the (another eye roll and this time a shake of the head) yearning was even more sharp. He had thought of Genevieve as a reprieve ( _“My reprieve, my Genevieve”_ , he thought nonsensically in a kind of doowop song rhythm). Perhaps his affection could be transferred to another deserving woman, or at least the ache centered around Robin would lessen as it had a little with Lorelei.

_Fat chance. Maybe it’s best she’s a bigot, I wouldn’t want to be an “emotional vampire” demanding “tea and blowjobs” from another woman._

Christ, but Lorelei had torn into him at the end.

Not that he didn’t deserve it.

Strike’s leg ached more than he'd anticipated as he rounded the corner on Denmark Street, and he lit another cigarette, smoking it faster than he should have as he limped down the pavement.

 _Glad Robin hasn’t gone out with anyone, at any rate._ He honestly wasn’t sure he’d be able to handle that. What if the bloke wasn’t an arsehole this time? What if Strike had to watch Robin glow in the bloom of a new relationship where a man treasured her the way she should be treasured? What if he had to listen to her talk about all the ways he was wonderful and so unlike Matthew and how he made her so happy?

“Fuck,” said Strike, finally outside the office, and he flicked his cigarette and went through the building's door.

He fancied he just got a glimpse of Robin’s hair disappearing at the top of the stairs.

Closing the door, he called out: “Robin!”

As if in answer, Robin began singing, and Strike was momentarily surprised, but wondered only briefly what was happening before he realised she must be unable to hear anything over her music. Mostly he was transfixed as he reached the bottom of the stairs and began climbing slowly, his leg hampering him. Robin’s voice was so beautiful, and her singing was no different.

_“Heart beats fast  
Colours and promises  
How to be brave  
How can I love when I’m afraid to fall  
But watching you stand alone  
All of my doubt suddenly goes away somehow  
One step closer”_

He was halfway up the stairs and could just see her facing away from him through the open door. He was eager to get to her and prevent any unnecessary embarrassment for her regarding something she might do or say when she thought herself alone, but his leg complained with each step, and he couldn’t move quickly, and the species of hypnosis he felt at hearing Robin sing about this subject in particular was not helping either.

_“I have died every day, waiting for you_  
_Darling, don’t be afraid, I have loved you for a thousand years_  
_I’ll love you for a thousand more"_

He was near the doorway when she practically howled: “Oh, Cormoran!”

Then she immediately dropped into a chair and wept inconsolably, head down on the desk.

Strike froze.

The surge of emotions that ran through him overwhelmed his senses: his head was spinning and his chest was inflating and his stomach was swooping, and overriding everything was panic and the desperate need to not let Robin see him. He slunk downstairs, not feeling the pain in his leg at all (adrenaline truly was the ultimate painkiller), and across the street and into the shadows, breathing heavily, his heart racing.

What did this mean? What should he do? He was so discombobulated that he felt he couldn't put two thoughts together. 

_But she… but I… could it have meant anything else?_

_You weren't imagining it. She was in tears over_ you _, she was sobbing and singing a love song and crying your name, and earlier tonight…_

Jealous. He'd told himself it couldn't be true, but it was. Her uncharacteristic attack on him had arisen from seeing the object of her desire going out with another woman. 

He was the object of Robin's desire.

He was terrified. 

_No, it can't be. It's ludicrous._

_Don't be daft, Strike. What's ludicrous is you trying to explain away something that's staring you in the face._

No matter what, he couldn't be seen by her tonight. Even if he was going to say something someday, this was not the right situation for a declaration of love that had been building for more than two years.

Robin emerged from the building, locked it, and headed down the street in the opposite direction from Strike, who still watched from deep darkness. He felt truly guilty acting like this, watching her from the shadows unbeknownst to her. Like the monster who'd raped her. Like Laing.

When he was sure she was not coming back, Strike walked across the street, up the stairs, and into his flat on autopilot, his mind buzzing. There were a million small details to be picked over from the past, things he'd told himself were not signs that had in fact been signs. A lingering look, a blush, a small smile as she turned away.

How long had she felt this way? What was he going to do?

Strike removed his leg and most of his clothes, and crashed into his bed, and let his mind go where it wished to go.

He did not sleep for a long time.


	3. Don't Be Afraid

Strike woke up close to noon, feeling calm, almost meditative. The feverish burst of thoughts and feelings had burned out last night, and now he could think more clearly. He had nowhere to go this weekend, no responsibilities, no one he had to speak to. He would take today to pore over everything again, starting in just a few minutes here.

He went to the bathroom and tended to the need to eat, all within five minutes, wolfing the eggs and toast down, not tasting it at all, wanting food to be sorted so that every bit of his mind could focus properly on the only thing that mattered.

With something in his stomach, he decided to preserve his reflective, serene outlook by ingesting several low-grade painkillers and half a tumbler of whisky. That ought to make his leg a non-factor for most of the day if he didn’t use it much.

He lay down in the most comfortable posture he could manage, letting his back and leg feel as rested and painless as possible.

Now...Robin.

He could put his hands on her once he told her how he felt and had consent. She’d almost certainly want him to; her need for him was desperate if last night was any indication.

Ugh, this shouldn’t be his first line of thought this morning, but he wouldn’t pretend it wasn’t a consideration. Robin was incredibly sexy. He had not had sex in six months, and he had never given his imagination free reign where Robin and sex were concerned, and now he knew she was interested. Strike thought of his lips trailing lightly along the bottom of Robin’s neck, his hands sliding seamlessly over her shoulders, arms, stomach, thighs, arse, back, and torso. His hands on her chest, allowed to caress and roam, her reciprocating, sliding her hands into his chest hair and around his back, pulling him toward her...

_Fuck right the fuck off, Strike. You can’t let your fucking cock weigh in on this._

_Weigh in on what, exactly?_

_Do we tell her or not? That’s the real question. You want her. She wants you. There are details that will be fascinating to explore, but really: should we tell her? And your cock does not get a vote._

But before he continued on this inexorable path, he took a moment to linger on the unexpected delight of Robin having a romantic and sexual interest in him. It felt so good. He had assumed she thought of him too much as a mentor figure, a fat old man, for him to be a romantic possibility. He had also assumed she was smarter than this, to get attached to him this way, but apparently she was as much of a fool as he was. 

_I have died every day, waiting for you._ Yes, the songwriter had something there. The existential agony of being in constant contact with another person whom you wanted to kiss and could not...it was nicely conveyed.

It occurred to him he ought to listen to the song, and he quickly found it with a Google search of some lyrics, and pulled it up on his phone.

Strike thought the song very pretty, though he almost certainly would never have listened to it under normal circumstances, given the subject matter and genre. Obviously, Ms. Perri was a talented woman, but he thought Robin’s voice did the thing more justice.

Certainly she had the pain inside her, the knowledge of the emotions in question, to sing it with conviction.

_That pain, the constant dying, that’s what you abandoned her to last night when you chose to hide._

Oh no.

She might be assuming he’d slept with Genevieve. If it was anything like him watching her with Matthew, her soul would be in agony right now.

“Right, have to call her,” he said out loud, and immediately did so without thinking about what he was doing.

She picked up quickly. “Cormoran, hello!” Now that he knew, he could hear the overexuberance she was expressing in an effort to overcome her pain.

“Hi, Robin.” He didn’t know what to say, and the silence stretched several seconds before Robin broke it.

“Cormoran? Are you there? Can you hear me?”

“Yeah, sorry, my mind wandered. I, er, I just called to say hello. I wanted to hear your voice, is all.” That at least was a partial truth. He always wanted to hear Robin’s voice, though now that he thought about it, telling her that might only make her heart ache more.

“Oh...Cormoran, thank you, that’s very kind. How, er, how did it go last night with Genevieve?”

_Oh, Robin, I’m so sorry I ever hurt you._

“Terrible, awful, abysmal, a plane crash of a date. She was rude and antisemitic. How’s that for a summary?”

“Oh!” He could hear the delight she was trying to disguise. It was worth any awkwardness to free her from that torture.

Then she did a better job of pulling herself together and sounding like she meant it. “I’m so sorry, Cormoran.”

“I’m not,” said Strike, and he thought about how many circumstances had conspired to make it so that he’d found out how Robin felt. If he’d arrived any earlier at all, he wouldn’t have heard her cry his name. If he’d walked in on her weeping, he’d have just left and waited the same way he had before, without knowing anything about the reason for her sorrow.

_What a shame that would have been._

Was that how he felt? That was surprising.

He had a moment of clarity. Of course he had to tell her.

He had taken away the acute pain in her heart regarding Genevieve, but the chronic pain would remain. She was enduring the pain he’d endured for a couple of years, and she would endure it for years if nothing changed. And he could save her from it, ergo he _had_ to save her from it.

When it had been only him feeling this way, he’d felt it would have been selfish to tell her. Now it was selfish not to.

It risked the business. It risked them, their partnership, their friendship. If they didn’t work as a couple, things might be terrible and broken.

But they couldn't stay the way they were. Robin was a sensitive soul, not built for the agony of heartache, even as strong as she was. She might leave him if the pain grew strong enough.

Suddenly he had a plan, though it involved giving her a little more pain before he told her.

But Robin deserved a bold, grand gesture, and any pain he caused her would be temporary and well compensated soon after.

He had been silent a little too long again, he realized.

“Robin, actually, there is one thing: are you busy on Monday night?”

“No, I’m not. Why?”

“Well, there’s something at work that really needs attention on Monday night ( _I’ll think of something, it needs to be dark when she’s finished._ ), and I have a personal engagement to attend to as it turns out. Do you think you could cover for me?”

“Of course, no trouble.”

“Great, thank you. Are you doing okay?”

“Actually, it’s very nice here. I haven’t had anything resembling a flatmate since uni, and we’ve been having some daytime wine and a good chat about which of our neighbours is the most annoying.”

He smiled. “I’m glad. I’ll let you both get back to it. Some time, I’d like to come over and weigh in on that discussion about the neighbours. I’m pretty sure I’ll have some strong opinions.”

“Anytime!” And now she really did sound pleased.

“Thanks, Robin. Speak soon.”

“Speak soon.” She rung off.

Right, was there anything he could do now to get ready? Probably not, really. He’d just have to wait.

Feeling like a child on December 23rd, Strike found something on the internet to distract his mind, and waited for it to be Monday.


	4. I Have Loved You

Robin was reflecting on how enjoyable her weekend had been as she arrived at work. She and her flatmate had found more common ground than up to now, and Strike had spared her a couple of long nights when he’d called her Saturday afternoon and told her about his disastrous date.

As she climbed the stairs, she wondered what this Monday night business Strike had mentioned was all about. After she’d rung off, it occurred to her that this was an anomaly: she knew pretty much everything about the business, and ought to have known about any such assignment on Monday. Strike was typically very transparent with her about such matters. Perhaps something had come up on Friday night or Saturday morning to make such an assignment necessary? She’d been too happy about Strike not sleeping with Genevieve to care very much, though, and thought it might be a bit awkward if she called back.

She walked into the office, and saw Strike’s garment bag, and her heart stuttered, and her brain seized.

“Morning!” said Strike from behind her, startling her.

“God, Cormoran, don’t do that! Where were you just now? I didn’t hear you come down.”

“Loo,” said Strike, and went behind his desk and sat down and started tapping at his keyboard.

She wasn’t going to wait all day to see what was going on this time.

“Are you going out with someone again?” Did it sound friendly? She hoped so.

“Staying in tonight, actually, but yeah, seeing someone.”

“In your flat?” She couldn’t quite hide her astonishment.

Strike looked at her, apparently confused. “Yeah, I hope to play host to a female guest in my flat, tonight. Why?”

Robin searched for something to say, but it was hard to think around the explosions of rage and despair. Finally: “Just seems odd on a Monday...and after a date on Friday.”

“Yeah, I have hopes tonight will go better. I’m pretty sure it will.”

Robin itched to ask more, but she thought that this time she might be better off not knowing the woman’s name for her own sanity. Perhaps this date would fail too, and she’d never have to learn the name.

 _You really think he’ll be unlucky two dates in a row? Face it, you’re going to find that name out at some point. What will it be? Cordelia? Anastasia? Imogen? Vivienne?_ She wasn’t sure if she was more in need of a rageful outburst or a good cry, but neither was an option at the moment.

“Well, best wishes for the evening!” said Robin. “In the meantime, what’s this business tonight that you mentioned on Saturday?”

“Ah, yes. Shanker’s getting ahold of some evidence later this afternoon regarding an old friend of ours. Something that might be able to put Whittaker away for a long time.” He frowned deeply. “Apparently some sort of ledger or documentation about his drug dealings. Shanker was cagey, not totally sure.”

Robin’s eyes popped, and her own troubles were swept aside in favor of Cormoran’s. “That’s crazy, really? Can he send you a picture?”

“Robin, you know Shanker. He wouldn’t want to leave any kind of fingerprint on this sort of thing, even an email or text. I’m just glad we might be able to get the bastard; I’ll take any straw I can grab on that one.”

“Wow. Well, alright then, I’ll be very happy to help you with this personal vendetta.”

“Thanks, Robin. Really appreciate this. Here’s the number you can call to reach Shanker and confirm the time and place,” he said, handing her a post-it. “Call him around 4:00. I’m heading out for the rest of the day to tail Dancing Queen. Please bring whatever Shanker gives you right back to the office tonight, sorry that keeps you out a little later.”

“No worries,” said Robin, who did not even know how she felt right now. Strike on a date, evidence on Whittaker. It was all so unexpected and confusing.

“Thanks, Robin. Have a good day!”

Robin spent her day at the office feeling unbalanced and depressed. She had hoped for some time to recover from the Genevieve business before he went out with someone again, but Strike seemed to be a magnet for women. She shouldn’t have assumed her heart would have any buffer before the next time.

“Doesn’t matter,” she said aloud to herself, alone in the office. “You can help catch the man who might be his mother’s killer, concentrate on that.”

She did her best.

At 4:00, she rang the number Strike had given her.

The call was answered. “‘Ello, ‘oo’s this, then?”

“Shanker, it’s Robin.”

“Robin, hi! Meet me at Buckingham Palace at 7:00, over by Victoria, right?”

Robin felt relieved. She’d been imagining a rough pub, or a construction site, or an abandoned building at the outer edge of London, but she’d be in well-lit, crowded places almost the entire trip.

“Will do.”

“Right, gotta go, fanks.” Shanker rang off without further ceremony.

Robin left the office at 6:15 to make her trip leisurely. She did not see Strike, who was some distance away on the opposite side of the street, rubbing his hands together and grinning gleefully as he watched her go.

********

Robin was at the Queen Victoria Memorial at 7:00, Shanker waiting for her. He made a very odd picture with the majesty of Buckingham Palace behind his short, tattoo-covered body. He handed her a backpack, which she did not open.

“Nice seeing you, Robin. Need to go, but you tell Bunsen I ‘ope the operation’s a success, alright? Got a personal stake in it, you might say.”

“I will. Thank you, Shanker.”

The light outside was very much gone by the time Robin reached the office, and the stairwell was dim. No doubt some sort of attempt at mood lighting from Strike for whoever this girl was.

She had dropped the backpack on Strike’s desk and re-shouldered her purse when her mobile buzzed. Strike.

Strike did not wait for her greeting but immediately started talking. “Robin, heard you come in, do you, er...do you think you could just come upstairs a moment and look at something for me?”

Her initial surprise transitioned to keen curiosity. What in the world? Strike NEVER invited her into his flat. It literally took unboxing an amputated leg for her to be allowed in his space. Honestly, at this moment, she was a little annoyed that after asking her to work this late, he was extending her evening with a personal request.

“Is anyone up there with you?”

“No, not yet.” _Not yet. Maybe she’ll fall and break her leg trying to come up these stairs in the dark._ But wait, shouldn’t she be up there already? Strike had mentioned a personal engagement keeping him from meeting Shanker. Perhaps she’d stood him up? _I’m not that lucky._ Or maybe there had been some other errand related to the date?

_Just get up there and get out quickly, what if this woman comes in the meantime?_

“All right,” she said, not quite able to keep the irritation out of her voice. “Coming up.” She rung off.

Robin could count the number of times she’d been up these stairs on one hand, and she had to be careful in the subdued lighting. She approached the flat’s door, and noted that the light coming from under the door was dim and flickering, not the electric flood she’d have expected.

She knocked.

“Come in.” His voice broke and pitched up on the word “in” like he was a teenager going through puberty.

She opened the door. “Cormoran, what…?” And then she was taken aback by the unexpected picture in front of her.

Cormoran was in the Italian suit, his back to her. His table was set with two lit candles, curry in bowls at either end, a glass of lager next to one bowl and a glass of wine next to the other.

Was he asking her to evaluate the decor for his date this evening? That seemed out of character.

Cormoran fiddled with something in front of him, and then music began playing at a volume that still allowed for conversation.

The song was “A Thousand Years”.

Robin’s mouth and body sagged. Her purse slipped from her shoulder and thudded onto the floor, and her skin prickled all over her body.

“Cormoran, did you...did you hear…?”

“Yes. I heard, Robin.” His voice was thick, and when he turned around, there was a single Yorkshire rose in his hand.

The combination of exhilaration and shame was new to Robin. “Oh no,” said Robin. “Not like that. I didn’t want you to find out like that.” She felt so embarrassed, could feel blood rushing to her face, but she was also keenly aware of that rose, the music, Cormoran’s tone.

“I’m glad I did.”

_“Heart beats fast  
Colours and promises”_

“I would never have had the courage to say this if I hadn’t heard,” said Strike, and he took a deep breath. “Robin, I’m in love with you. I have been for the last couple of years.”

Robin felt her chest burning, her stomach filled with butterflies, a lump in her throat, tears in her eyes, her mouth screwed up in an effort to prevent herself from sobbing.

_“How to be brave  
How can I love when I’m afraid to fall”_

“I’ve never been in love with anyone before. I know that now, because of you. Will you have me, Robin? I can’t tell you how much I’ve wanted you."

_“But watching you stand alone  
All of my doubt suddenly goes away somehow”_

"It’s kept me awake so many nights; the day you got married...it was like a loved one had died, or I’d lost another limb. I’ll understand if you can’t do this, but...”

_“One step closer”_

Robin turned around and shut the door, and threw herself into Cormoran’s arms and planted her mouth on his just as the chorus started, feeling like she was in a music video, with a camera spinning around them to capture every angle of this first, hard-earned kiss.

_“I have died every day, waiting for you_  
_Darling, don’t be afraid, I have loved you for a thousand years_  
_I’ll love you for a thousand more”_

The kiss was sweet and warm for a few moments, and then it was not sweet. Robin lost any sense of control, and kissed him fiercely, tasting and smelling him, feeling the strength and safety of his arms wrapping around her. Oh, but he was a fantastic kisser, his tongue teasing hers with a delicacy she was not capable of in this moment. Her tongue explored his mouth swiftly and almost forcefully, learning every corner, and he moaned (she could feel the vibration on her tongue), obviously happy and excited. The sheer impossibility of what was happening combined with the physical sensations made her feel like she was high on some euphoric drug. His hands and hers wandered pleasantly over each other’s bodies, and then Robin leaned away, her hands still on him, his hands still on her.

“Cormoran, are you sure about this? _I’m_ quite sure, but are you? The women you date...they’re so...so beautiful and well-accomplished, and I’m…”

“Robin.” She stopped babbling. “You’re right. _All_ the women I’ve ever taken a serious romantic interest in have been beautiful and well-accomplished. Every last one of them.”

Robin blushed, and her heart felt like it would explode with joy.

“Cormoran, I love you, I’m in love with you too…”

And then their hands and mouths were on each other again, passion driving all rational thought aside.

Robin tugged him toward the bed.

“The curry will get cold,” said Strike, joking, and Robin almost laughed, except this was so deadly serious.

“Sod the bloody curry,” said Robin, and she kicked off her shoes, and pulled her shirt over her head (she heard Strike’s breath catch), and unbuttoned her jeans and shoved them off of her legs and lay on the bed, gazing at him with smouldering eyes. “Touch me, Cormoran. Make me feel good, make me yours.”

His pupils dilated, and his fingers flexed. “You don’t want to...to talk more about this first or anything?”

“After. I’ve waited so long, and you’ve waited even longer…”

Strike knew when to obey orders. He removed his jacket, shoes, socks, shirt and trousers in a matter of seconds. Then he said: “My God, you’re beautiful, Robin. You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“Even counting Charlotte?” said Robin, and the plea in her question broke his heart.

Strike snorted and started removing his leg, keeping his eyes on her as he did so. “She has nothing on you, Robin. Jesus Christ, look at you. You’re like a statue of Aphrodite. Your eyes and your smile are radiant, your hair is made of sunbeams, your body is absolutely fucking incredible. Charlotte should be so lucky...on second thought, no she shouldn’t.”

And then his leg was off, and he was in bed with her and on top of her, and the hair on his chest and stomach was whispering softly against her, and he kissed her again and ran one hand up her leg to her hip and then to her waist. His grip on her there drove her crazy; it was so incredible to feel his big, strong hands on her, gentle and firm all at once. He moved his other hand underneath her, Robin arching her back to give him access, and he unfastened her bra smoothly with one hand, and after that, Robin felt nothing but happiness and the feeling of having her body worshipped by a man who loved her and knew what to do to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, some things:
> 
> 1) The next (last) chapter won’t be smut; it’s just gonna be them talking, and, you know, probably making out. Sorry, I meant snogging. Just to set expectations. Anyway, they've kissed and done it, so you're fine now, right? :D
> 
> 2) The last chapter may take some time. I’m considering re-reading the series ahead of Troubled Blood, and feel like doing so might give me more topics for them to discuss and ground their relationship more in my head.
> 
> 3) Troubled Blood is going to eat Robin alive. It’s in the summary, for fuck’s sake, about her feelings for Strike. This book is going to be similar to Order of the Phoenix: an overstuffed Book 5 that brings calamity to our heroes. I think that’s part of why I wrote/am writing this story. I wanted to give Robin a fairy tale version of events, where Strike is the one who makes the move (almost every other romantic story I’ve written has Robin doing so, which I think will probably be canon accurate, but let’s find out in a book or two, here's hoping) since she’s about to be tortured so severely. Bless her poor heart.
> 
> 4) If I made any horrific gaffes with Shanker’s accent or London geography, do let me know.
> 
> 5)Thank you for reading!


	5. I Will Love You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanted to get this in before I read TB, so here we go. They got a bit more hot and heavy than I'd planned, so I went ahead and bumped the rating up.

“Oh Jesus, oh fuck, oh Robin…”

“Cormoran, Cormoran, Cormoran, GOD!”

They both achieved release at the same time. They’d had sex four times so far in approximately forty minutes, barely speaking between sessions, just recovering breath and stamina before pulling out a new condom to begin again. Cormoran was taking a little longer to come each time, making it ever easier for him to gratify Robin. Robin had come a total of ten times (once from his tongue, nine times from his cock by Strike's count) to Strike’s (naturally) four, but this was the first time they’d both come together, and it was wonderful beyond wonderful to be united in their ecstasy.

They collapsed once more, chests heaving in an effort to recover oxygen, and Strike thought he could never be happier than he was now...but he could try to stay this happy forever.

“Oh Cormoran,” and then she had to pause for breath before she could go on. “I’m still tingling, you’re incredible, holy shit. You make me come so _hard_.”

Strike grinned and wrapped her fantastic body in his arms, thanking providence that they were here, that he was not dreaming, and that the skills he’d developed over the past couple of decades were being put to good use on a woman who deserved them.

An incredibly sexy woman who deserved them. There had been verve and enthusiasm and technique beyond Strike’s experience in their four explosive couplings thus far.

“Likewise! Best sex ever. Fantastic start to finish. You’re talented in bed, Robin--so active and engaged and thoughtful.”

“Really?” said Robin, looking extremely pleased, glowing in fact, at his compliment. 

“Oh yeah! I’ve had a few, you might say, inactive partners. Just laying there. You’re a great counterpoint.”

“Really?!” said Robin, more vehemently. It sounded as though she were insulted on his behalf, upset that her gender had ever represented itself so poorly in this area of his life. “Hmph, I’d say if anything I’m used to being the active one while he does nothing…”

“Go on! Matthew was lazy between the sheets? Glorious! Thank you for telling me that. I’m sorry that arsehole didn’t value you or treat you properly, but I’m fucking chuffed that I get to follow that sorry act.”

“Nothing could have prepared me for how good you are. It’s incredible, I can’t think, I can only feel what you’re doing to me and how much I love you. Thank you so much, Cormoran, it’s so, so wonderful.”

“Of course, anytime. Er, except maybe right this minute. I might need some time to be ready again. I love you, and I’ve been waiting for this forever, but I’m not 25 anymore.”

“No hurry.” She curled up next to him and wrapped her thighs around his still whole left leg. “Cormoran,” she said sleepily, idly running her hand through the hair on his chest. “If I’d asked the name of the girl you were seeing this evening, what were you going to say?”

Strike’s deep bass chuckle rumbled against her hand. “Well, I thought about just saying ‘It’s Robin, can you believe it?’ But that seemed a bit bold. I was going to go with Venetia, actually.”

Robin made a noise of disgust. “I’m so glad I didn’t ask.”

Strike grimaced. “I hope what I put you through today wasn’t too much. I just really wanted tonight to be a surprise.”

“Oh, it’s the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to me! Don’t apologise, it was wonderful. It _is_ wonderful.”

Strike smiled. “What I wonder is what Shanker put in that backpack.”

Robin grinned. “Maybe a notebook with a few unconvincing, uncoded drug names and amounts paid on the first page. ‘Heroin: 2000 pounds paid by Nigel, Cocaine: 500 quid paid by Francesca.’”

“Ha! I doubt Shanker went to that much trouble. Some newspapers or magazines? A bit of rubbish?”

“We’ll find out...but not right now. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else right now. Cormoran, is this real? Is this happening? Do you mean it?”

“I have literally never been more serious about anything in my life.”

“What’s work going to look like?”

“Well, I’m hoping that our working relationship is about the same as it’s ever been since it’s always been fantastic. Can’t promise you I won’t bend you over a desk if the opportunity arises, though. No one else in the office, your arse wiggling as you bend over, nature will take its course.”

“God, I hope so!” Robin sighed and lay her head on Strike’s shoulder and put her nose next to his neck, inhaling deeply. “You smell incredible. I’ve wanted to just smell you for so long; oh, it’s so satisfying.” She inhaled again. Then she rose up on one elbow and put her chin on her hand to look at his face. Strike looked down the bed and admired the length of her. Robin had a beautiful back. “Have you really been in love with me for two years, Cormoran?”

“Yes.”

“That’s so awful, I’m sorry. If only I’d...if only I’d left Matt before…”

“No, Robin, don’t. You needed to prove to yourself that you’d given it every chance. I get that. I respect that. You know now it wouldn’t ever have worked, and you’d always have wondered if you didn’t know.”

She nodded thoughtfully, and then said: “I thought about you all the time on the honeymoon. All the time.”

“Likewise. Those were among the worst weeks of my life, and I’ve had some bad ones. I thought you would leave him, I really did, and when I heard you’d gone on the trip, it was like falling into a bottomless pit. I behaved pretty abominably during that time. I don’t think I spent more than an hour of it sober. But I understand why you went through with it, everything is all right now.”

Robin said: “I wondered if I was in love with you then. I’ve had so little romantic experience, Cormoran, I didn’t even know how to identify what I felt for you. I called you once during the trip, you know. One day I called you on a local landline, and a woman answered calling you ‘Cormy-warmy’, and I was so upset, I rang off. I thought you couldn’t love me if...who was she, Cormoran? I’m sorry if that sounds desperate and needy, but who was she?”

“Oh, bloody hell, that was you? Robin, she was no-one. I mean, let me rephrase, she was a perfectly nice woman named Coco. The Wardles more or less set me up with her, and I was… I was so sad all the time, Robin. The thought of you and Matthew was like wearing a ten-stone weight around everywhere. Temporary companionship and transient pleasure sounded better than a cold bed and just me thinking about you all night. Coco was not my finest hour. I never dated her at all, avoided her like a coward in the weeks following, in fact. I’m so sorry to hear that I ever hurt you that way. But it wasn’t because I didn’t care about you; it was because of how desperately I cared for you that I wandered into such an idiotic dalliance. God, that hug on the stairs at your wedding.”

“Oh, I know! Why do you think I thought about you all the time? That hug knocked the wind out of me; it woke up so many feelings. I’d have left with you if you’d asked me.”

“Would you have, really?” He sounded just a little wistful. “I almost asked you. It was right there on the tip of my tongue: ‘Come with me’. But I knew I could never take it back. And you’d just got married, I had to assume that you...that even despite his lies...that you wanted to stay married to that bastard and…” Robin was shocked to see one tear leak out of Strike’s eye, and he sniffed and wiped the tear away. She’d only ever known him to cry once, when his nephew Jack was in hospital. Tears were not wrung out of Cormoran Strike easily: that single tear proved how deep and desperate his love for her was and had been.

She kissed him softly, slowly, over and over again on his cheek and lips, whispering between kisses and crying just a little herself. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Cormoran. I love you. I love you. It’s all right, I’m here now. Please, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.”

“Nothing to forgive,” said Strike with another sniff. “It just hurt, is all. All is well.”

“Well, it will be, anyway. Tonight is a celebration, but it’s also a reckoning. We have a lot of wounds to close up. Speaking of, have you heard from Charlotte since her divorce? Are you sure you’re not still interested in her? I saw the way you left together from the Paralympian event.”

“Oh, we’re very much finished. Which is to say I _have_ heard from her since her divorce started, and I turned her down flat. Turning up on my doorstep like that and her with two children to care for...it felt pathetic and nasty. No, Robin, you’re the only woman I’ve ever loved, I told you.”

“Oh, I’m SO happy to hear it, tell me again and again. And you’re the only man I’ve ever loved. I thought I had it bad. I’ve only been truly willing to admit how I felt about you since after I split up with Matt. You’ve been feeling that way since before I got married. You poor man.”

“Yes, well, can’t say I’m unhappy with how things turned out. God, your body’s ridiculous, Robin,” he said, looking at her from head to toe. “Your thighs, your arse, the way your pubic hair gleams in the dark. Jesus, I’ve honestly never seen a better pair of tits--big and beautiful together, with those rose pink nipples. God, it’s like a dream.” He slid down the bed, kissing her cheeks and neck as he went, and put his mouth on her breast again, and she sighed languorously and rolled onto her back and enjoyed the feelings, and he suckled very gently, leaning over her to switch sides at one point, and sliding his hand along her arm, hip, and thigh all the while. She stroked his hair and pressed him close to her.

Robin was anticipating that he would be inside of her again within a minute of his mouth being on her nipple, but he was being so slow and gentle with her, and his cock was still fairly soft against her thigh as he made her feel good. Robin had never known foreplay to last for its own sake, to be fun and slow-paced for both parties without it being a direct route to intercourse (Matthew was her only benchmark). She could have lain like this forever with Strike at her breast--well, alright at some point she'd inevitably crack and beg him to bury himself in her again.

“Cormoran?”

“Mmmmm?” His mouth was still on her.

“When did you start to feel this way about me?”

He removed his mouth and sat up. “You know, to tell the truth, I can’t imagine it was longer than a few days after you showed up, really.”

“What?!”

“Well, all right,” he said, smiling. “Not to where I was admitting it to myself, but at the end of that first week, when we both thought you were going to leave...I think I was going to ask you back if you hadn’t asked me first. And I don’t think that’s just because you’re the most efficient and intelligent person I’ve ever met; I think some part of me knew it was… _wrong_ , blasphemous even...for you to leave. After Brockbank, I tried to make you leave, and it was almost instantly clear to me how stupid I’d been. I know now that I’d rather die than not have you in my life.”

“Cormoran,” she said, taking his hand, and pressing it to her cheek. “That’s so...so kind…” Her breath hitched and she said, “No one’s ever...ever valued me like that. Matthew…” Now she was crying, unable to speak for a moment. “You’re the most incredible man, Cormoran.”

“Yeah, well, you ask Elin and Lorelei about that, and see what they tell you.”

She was quiet for a few seconds, and she sounded a little fearful as she spoke. “Do you think you’ll treat me like you did them?”

“No! No, Robin, I...this sounds awful. It _is_ awful. But they were...they were a barrier. Between you and me. It made it...easier...well, Lorelei did anyway. I did like her, but it was always so pale compared to what I’ve always felt for you. It was unbearable, Robin, being so close to you, but not able to close that last gap because I thought it was right for the agency and you were engaged, or married, or divorcing. That’s why I was with them. That’s entirely why I was with them, and why I was so...difficult for them at the end. My heart could never be theirs and they knew it. They didn’t just know it, they knew it was you who had it. It must have been terrible for them. I wasn’t good to them at all. But I’m determined to be great with you. And I hope you’ll let me know when I’m not being great.”

She absorbed this for a few moments. “I didn’t give myself to my own marriage. Not really. I gave it to the agency. I gave it to you. You saved me, Cormoran. You saved me from a life of letting Matt tell me what was what about everything. The day I got here, I thought he was the sun and the moon, and you showed me how wrong I was. If I hadn’t had a real man to compare him to, I’d have been his mother-of-two, working in some awful bloody office, smiling and telling him how right he was that it was my fault I’d burned the dinner. I _will_ tell you, if you need to be told, Cormoran. Because you’ve helped me stand on my own two feet, you’ve made it possible for me to tell you everything without holding back. I love you so much.”

“God, Robin, I love you too. You’re the woman who doesn’t try to tell me what to do but makes me want to do my best anyway. I might have gone back to bloody Charlotte if it weren’t for you. But you’re too wonderful and sexy to make that idea at all appealing anymore.”

He rolled onto his back and hauled her up onto himself so that she was lying on his chest. Robin felt swept away by the overwhelming masculinity of him, the way he moved her around so easily, the way his chest hair felt against her breasts, the sudden re-stiffening of his cock (five times! Had Matt ever done three…?). He kissed her with abandon, filling her mouth with his tongue, the pressure of his (huge!) erection throbbing against her clit.

“Yes, Cormoran, God, more more more.”

“Yes,” said Strike. “I’ll never stop.”

After another twenty minutes, the score was fifteen to five.

********

The next morning saw Strike and Robin walking downstairs with the zombified, zonked out look of the strung-out druggie, or the desperate insomniac, or the lovers who have spent that first night together, bingeing on dopamine, serotonin, and adrenaline to outrun the exhaustion.

“I can’t believe real life has to go on now,” said Robin as they neared the office. “I’m about to die, but I feel so alive. I need to sleep, but all I want is for you to touch me again.”

“Likewise, Robin.”

Strike saw the backpack Robin had left the previous night, and went to unzip it. There was a notebook and on its front cover a note taped on, with Shanker’s uneven, childlike writing on it, barely decipherable: “Robin, let Bunsen read this first.”

“Ha!” said Strike, showing Robin the note. “Already better than I’d have given him credit for.” 

He opened the front flap, “Let’s see if he gave it any more…” But his words died in his throat, and his face went still, and a moment later, Robin saw tears in Strike’s eyes for the second time in twelve hours.

“Shanker…” said Strike, shocked and moved, and he showed Robin what was written in the notebook, noticeably more legible than the note on the outside, as though Shanker had given it some effort. It said:

“So happy for you both. Leda would have been happy too, Bunsen.”

Robin’s own eyes filled with tears, and then Robin and Strike held one another, the human constants of love and grief filling up their souls.

“She would have, Robin, she _would_ have,” said Strike, and he sounded both happy and as though something had been stolen from him.

“Oh, Cormoran.”

They did not really move for another couple of minutes.

“All right,” said Strike. “All right.” Robin nodded and smiled, and went to her desk.

They looked at each other and said it at the same time:

“Let’s get to work.”


End file.
